


what goes around comes around

by newmachineblue



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Gen, Physical Abuse, Pre-Series, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7767193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newmachineblue/pseuds/newmachineblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darlene—whose policy on sharing is limited to what she can get out of her generosity, a quid pro quo policy that is learned either from abusing an addiction or a fear of perpetual poverty—gets away with everything, and I fucking hate it.  Even when mom catches her, it doesn’t seem to faze her as much as inconvenience her, and she perpetually rebels on purpose, just to prove that she can, just to show me what I’m missing, just to rub mom’s nose in it. It only exacerbates mom’s outbursts and everything gets worse the longer dad stays dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what goes around comes around

Darlene likes to sneak back in through my window.

She’s never as stealthy as she’d like to think, hobbling half-drunk and barefoot across my room, mumbling to herself when she knocks into something. The first few times she did this, I thought it was all in my imagination—some sort of fucked up dream—but eventually Darlene admits it’s easier to avoid mom if she came by this way, and that I should just “learn to deal with it.”

Darlene—whose policy on sharing is limited to what she can get out of her generosity, a quid pro quo policy that is learned either from abusing an addiction or a fear of perpetual poverty—gets away with everything, and I fucking hate it. Even when mom catches her, it doesn’t seem to faze her as much as inconvenience her, and she perpetually rebels on purpose, just to prove that she can, just to show me what I’m missing, just to rub mom’s nose in it. It only exacerbates mom’s outbursts and everything gets worse the longer dad stays dead.

“I’m getting tired of this, Darlene.”

She puts her shoes down, has the audacity to scoff like I’m fucking with her.

“Move over.” She shoves and pushes and prods until she can lie down next to me. I don’t feel claustrophobic enough to pull away, but it’s a close thing.

“Shit—Darlene, can you just get the fuck out of here? I’m trying to sleep.”

She snorts—an echo of an echo of an echo of what she used to sound like, back when we were marginally happy or content or whatever—air passing through her nose in that sound mom hates but loves to bitch about.

~*~

Darlene maybe likes getting in trouble as much as I like staying out of it—always looking for new and interesting buttons to press, just because. I’m starting to wonder if it’s simply out of boredom when Darlene starts yelling, a plate full of food shattering against the wall, right above my shoulder, mashed potatoes and carrots getting caught in my sweater.

I close my eyes. I wait. Darlene’s voice makes me sick—the way it’s turning and twisting, sounding unusually betrayed—leaves my stomach turning. Mom shuffles angrily, dangerously, demanding, “Did you fucking pay for this, Darlene? Did you put this food on the table?”

I can almost hear Darlene roll her eyes, trying to assert herself, trying to make herself the dominant one. But mom gets the upper hand—she always does—and Darlene drops to the floor, and she’s maybe crying because her mouth sounds wet when she opens it to curse or fight or say whatever inflammatory thing is going to push mom over the edge.

I open my eyes just in time to watch mom hit Darlene across the face, rings cutting little scrapes into the cheek of Darlene’s skin, and when Darlene goes down, mom pushes her face into the food on the floor, a plate shard jabbing itself deep into Darlene’s chin and now there’s blood on the floor. Mom comments on it and yells, “You’re going to clean this floor on hands and knees, little girl…” She laughs threatens, “or I’ll really give you something to cry about.”

Darlene tries to get up, her hands flat on the floor and pushing up, up, up against the pressure mom is putting on the back of her head. I pick up my plate. I leave it in the sink. Darlene looks up at me, then, her face dirty, and a bruise forming on her forehead where mom’s been knocking her into the ground. Darlene’s eyes are half glued shut with gravy. She fucking smiles at me and licks the food off her lips. I walk away.

There are only 37 steps between Darlene on the floor and me on my bed.

~*~

In the dark, Darlene says, “We could kill her, you know.” She kicks the ground to push her swing into motion, flicking the cap of her stolen Zippo open, closed, open, closed. “We could get away with it, too.”

Maybe she’s right. I try not to think too much about it. I reach out to pluck the joint from between her lips. “I’m moving out.”

Darlene sighs. “I know.”

We don’t talk about it. I know she has a boyfriend. She’s probably going to move in with him. Nobody’s ever met him, because Darlene likes compartmentalizing her life and keeping her distance. I could count the number of times I’ve seen Darlene vulnerable on one hand. Both of us prefer to keep it that way.

“You should come with me.” I say it. I don’t mean it. Darlene knows the score. It’s nothing personal; we just don’t know each other—Darlene and I. We’re different beasts, in the end—Darlene and I.

She flicks the lighter on, smiles in the shadows her face is making. “Maybe next time.” Darlene gets up when I give her the joint, walks away into the night, and comes home a week later like nothing ever happened.


End file.
